


Conversations Among the Ruins

by DeathValleyQueen



Series: To Create Such a Ruin [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, M/M, Manipulation, Multi, Violence, dark!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 17:05:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathValleyQueen/pseuds/DeathValleyQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after Pieced, Glued, and Properly Jointed.</p>
<p>Sherlock's back and John isn't John anymore. Sherlock attempts to bring him back while Moriarty takes steps to keep him the same. The last part of the series (I think)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conversations Among the Ruins

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to Mq who helped me edit this and listened to me go back and forth for weeks about the ending. Once again, this is John at his darkest so be prepared for that. The title is from the Slyvia Plath poem found here: http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/sylviaplath/1385
> 
> Enjoy! I adore feedback.

John woke up slowly and then all at once. While his mind worked to try and recall when he’d been jumped, he took in the room around him. It was in an old hotel room that smelled strongly of mold and decay. He was bound by the foot to a support beam in the center of the room. It allowed him access to the bathroom and the little kitchenette but not to the door or windows. That was careful planning on the part of his kidnapper. Mycroft, maybe? Jim didn’t play kidnap games, it was more fun to actually kidnap some motherfucker. So it had to be Mycroft. No one else was stupid enough to play with something of Jim’s.

As if summoned by these thoughts, the door opened, but a different Holmes walked in. Sherlock looked clean and neat as if he hadn’t just spent the time and effort to kidnap John. For a moment they both stared at each other. Sherlock’s grey-green eyes were perfectly blank, waiting for John to react. And react he did.

John threw himself across the floor, trying to grab for Sherlock. But the chain was too short and he found himself several feet away from his intended victim. Sherlock stood straighter, seeming to steel himself for a fight.

“There’s no need for such a strong reaction, John,” Sherlock said, taking off his gloves and coat and putting them on a chair just out of arms reach.

“Take me off this chain and I’ll show you just how strong my reaction is.” John leaned against the wall, arms crossed defensively over his chest. “You work this out with Mycroft? Having me kidnapped must be a big fetish for the Holmes men. Did you come in your pants thinking of it?”

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “You always had a flare for words. That’s why your blog always got so many hits.”

For a while they both waited in silence, Sherlock watching as John tried and failed not to twitch. He began to pace the room, testing out the length of his chain. He had rein of the back half of the hotel but clearly not enough to get out. The lock was strong and there were no blunt objects with which to break it. As he walked, John found his fingers going to his dog tags, a nervous twitch he’d picked up from staying with Jim. He spun to turn and so saw the look on Sherlock’s face as he caught sight of the collar. Fury had turned Sherlock’s eyes into grey-green icebergs. 

“What is that?” Sherlock asked in a voice that was nothing so much as the eye of the storm. 

John opened his mouth to say “fuck off” when he found himself pinned to the wall, held in a tight grip. Despite his struggles, John couldn’t dislodge Sherlock, who grabbed the collar

Sherlock’s hand wrapped around the back of John’s throat. With skilled hands he unsnapped the collar and pulled it off, leaving John suddenly feeling naked. “What is this?” He asked again as he all but shoved it in John’s face.

“Deduce it, detective.” John said flippantly.

“A collar?” Sherlock snarled. “Look at you, John. You’re wearing a collar.”

“You were dead.” John said as calm as a spring breeze. 

“You’re wearing a collar!” Sherlock said back, frustration evident in each word.

“You were dead.” John’s voice rose a bit and he struggled once more against Sherlock’s grip.

“But a collar? A dog collar with his name on it!”

“Dead. Suicide. Fell from a building. I checked your pulse, you son of a bitch!” 

“Is that what you are now, John? Nothing but a filthy dog wearing a collar?”

“Walking zombie corpse!”

“Mutt!” 

“Liar!”

Sherlock fell silent as John roared that final word, the sound of it ricocheting off the wall. Their eyes were locked but Sherlock’s held more shock than anger now. All the anger had fled into John who all but pulsed with tension. Sherlock gripped the dog tags tight and then pulled away, stepping quickly out of range of John’s chains. John’s hand shot up, already yearning for the missing piece of his collar

“You look better without it,” Sherlock said.

“Like I give a damn how you think I look.”

Silence. Then, barely over a whisper, “You used to care a great deal.”

“And you used to be alive. Funny how things change.”

John was happy to hear the door open and shut once more, but he knew Sherlock and he knew it wasn’t over. After all, Sherlock never did let anyone have the final word.

***

You have something of mine. Return it at once –JM

Over my dead body. –SH 

Wasn’t that the problem to begin with, Sherly? –JM

***

John hated the hotel room. It was too cramped and he felt constantly as if he was suffocating. He woke up screaming some nights, reaching for a collar that wasn’t around his neck because Sherlock Holmes stole it. The bastard.

His fingers ached to be slipping against those tags, his link to Jim. In the claustrophobic room John clung to a simple hope: Jim was searching for him. John allowed the thought to lull him to sleep at night. Jim would find him and free him.

After Sherlock took his tags, John didn’t see much of him except for fleeting glances to bring him food. But there was no conversation to speak of, which pleased John. He had nothing more to say to Sherlock. Well, maybe not ‘nothing’ but next to. 

Left alone to his own thoughts, John planned new murders. He reviewed the plans for Mycroft Holmes, calculating what steps to take next. He wondered if Jim was carrying on with his plot despite John’s absence. John hoped so. No reason to let Sherlock ruin perfectly good plans after all. He wondered how many different ways he could kill the Prime Minster and make it look like an accident or Muslim extremists. Sometimes he wrapped his fingers around his own chains and pictured force-feeding it one inch at a time into Sherlock’s throat until it filled him up. John found this fantasy exceptionally satisfying. 

John’s stay in the hotel room had totaled three days when Sherlock entered in without food and sat down in his little chair out of John’s reach. John’s fingers ached for his stolen collar. He was not afraid of Sherlock Holmes but he desperately wanted out of the chains so he could get his fingers around Sherlock’s long neck. 

Tenting his fingers, Sherlock leaned back, studying the way John had seem him study crime scenes. John smirked with the realization that he was a walking chalk outline these days. Sherlock seemed to be waiting but for what John didn’t know. It was not as if he had anything to contribute to any conversation here.

“I’ve been thinking about why Moriarty is so interested in you,” Sherlock said.

John certainly hadn’t been expecting that. He lifted one eyebrow and the corner of his mouth turned up. “Jealous that he’s not trying to get in your pants instead? Somehow I doubt you’d find his bedroom games amusing. He’s not so vanilla as all that.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose but otherwise didn’t comment. “He promised the first night we met that he’d burn the heart out of me. Maybe taking you and shaping you into a miniature him is his way of burning out my heart.”

“Could be,” John conceded. “It’s likely that he’s doing it just to hurt you.”

“You don’t seem bothered by the notion.”

“Jim uses people, that’s pretty much his MO. It’s not as if he makes a secret out of it. I’m a means to an end but that doesn’t mean he dislikes me. In fact, I have collected an impressive amount of evidence to suggest that he likes me a great deal.”

“Finding you sexually attractive is no indication of true affection,” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. 

“It’s not the sex I’m talking about. I’m his now, Sherlock. He claimed me and he doesn’t bother to call things his he doesn’t intend on keeping.” 

Sherlock made a scoffing noise and stood, pacing. “This is ridiculous,” he said, leaning forward. “John you’ve let him turn you into his omega dog. He’s collared you and all but left a scent mark on you. How can you possibly think that makes him care for you? When he’s finished with you he’ll toss you out the way he does everything.”

“That may be true but he’s not done with me yet. I’m sure he’s already contacted you demanding me back.”

“Actually I’ve heard nothing from Mr. Moriarty. Maybe he hasn’t noticed you’re gone.”

John stared at Sherlock in silence for a moment. “You’re bluffing.”

“I’m really not.”

Another lull in the discussion, but John smirked. “I know he contacted you,” John said. “He will never give me up to you. Not when I still matter to you. Which, by the way, you need to let go of. I am nothing but your enemy now.”

For a moment Sherlock looked almost hurt. Then he stood and dusted off his suit. “You will never be my enemy, John.” He whispered. “I will never stop caring for you.”

“All the worse for you then. It will make my killing you more enjoyable for me.”

***

Every day you keep him from me is another bone of yours I will break when I see you next –JM

Your threats are useless, Moriarty. I will never give him over to you. –SH

When my boy breaks whatever leash you have on him, you better hope you have a gun on you. He’ll likely rip your heart out with his teeth. –JM

John would never hurt me. –SH

Then you really don’t know the John Watson you’re dealing with. –JM

***

John remembered reading that short story “The Yellow Wallpaper” when he was a student. The wallpaper in his makeshift cell was floral and John found it loathsome. There were places it peeled from the walls and with gentle pressure his fingernail took large chunks off it off completely. He began to carve the words “Not Your John” over and over into the wall. It entertained him at least.

He stopped eating after Sherlock told that hateful lie about Jim. Of course Jim was coming for him, he knew that. No amount of lying on Sherlock’s end could change that. It was only to spite Sherlock that he’d stopped eating. Instead he let the tray stay in a corner to rot. 

When he wasn’t busy carving words over and over into the wall, John kept himself occupied with attempting to rid himself of the chain. Before long he’d rubbed his ankle raw with his efforts. There was no means with which to pick the lock and he grew frustrated with his limited mobility. He wanted out. It had only been a week, but it felt like years. He was trapped in this place with only Sherlock for company. He missed Jim, or rather, missed everything Jim did and represented. He missed Jim’s attention, missed the smell of copper blood and feeling a pulse stopping under his fingers.

Sherlock stayed longer each time. John could almost time it. Sherlock would walk in with a tray of food for John which would be ignored and then Sherlock would start talking.

“This is childish,” Sherlock said in his frustration as John refused to talk back beyond insults. “You cannot come up with any true defense for your actions. You must know that what you are doing with Moriarty is wrong. You do know he is only using you to get at me and yet you insist on not eating and not seeing reason.”

John lifted an eyebrow. “Bet that drives you crazy, doesn’t it? My being illogical.”

“Yes!” Sherlock confessed. “It’s maddening, John! I know you aren’t stupid, you’ve proven that dozens of times. But from the way you’re acting I seem to have to rethink that analysis.”

“Oh yes, that’s the way to win me over, Sherlock. Insult me some more.”

Sherlock did his dismissive hand wave again. “Don’t act offended by this, John.”

“Act? Yes my not liking to be called a child and an idiot must be an act.” John shook his head. “You are worse than I remember. You could never be kind not even for a second, could you?”

“Please, if you wanted kind you certainly wouldn’t be in the hands of Moriarty.”

John was across the room as his chains would let him in an instant. He glared as much as he could at Sherlock. “You think Jim insults me at every turn? You think he belittles me and pretends I’m clever by trying to get me to solve puzzles he can’t be bothered to think too hard about? Jim doesn’t need to call me names to feel special.”

“And you don’t consider ‘Johnny boy’ a name?”

“You don’t get to call me that.”

“It’s demeaning, Johnny boy! It’s a name for a child, not a solider.”

“Call me that again and I will pluck each of your eyes out and feed them to you. Let’s see how brilliant your deductive skills are without your bloody eyes!”

Sherlock’s eyebrows narrowed. “You really don’t see how he’s treated you, do you? He’s warped you into this killer while making you nothing more than his sick slave fantasy. And you’re playing right into it, insisting I not use his special name for his special boy.”

John smiled not so much like a shark but a wolf. “I see. You’re upset I’m not your special boy.”

“Must you make everything sexual? Has turned you into a sex fiend as well?”

“When will you get it through your skull that I like the way I am now?”

“The very second I look into your eyes and see a person who isn’t dead inside.”

John blinked twice and shook his head. “The John Watson you knew died when you did. The person I am now is here to stay. Better get used to it.”

“Never, John. I will not rest until I have you back with me.”

***

Sloppy work leaving your cellphone on all day. I’ll be with my Johnny Boy soon enough. –JM

You’ll be dead before you’re through the door. –SH

Oh I’m sorry did you really think I’d send myself? Tell him not to worry his pretty head. I’ve got my best people on it. –JM

And I’ve got mine. –SH

***

“John, please do try to remain calm.”

The words were enough to make John anything but. John’s eyes landed on the two men who had trailed Sherlock into the room. They stood tall with suits on and ear pieces in. Mycroft’s men. Obvious. Boring. John grinned at Sherlock with a lifted eyebrow. “I don’t usually go for gangbangs. And frankly I don’t feel like making an exception.”

One of the men went near him and as soon as he was in range, John slid down, leg coming out to knock the man’s knees out from under him. John watched him fall before bouncing up and pressing the heel of his foot to the man’s throat. The heavy press soon had Mycroft’s man grunting for breath. John smiled at the sound, eyes fixed on the dying man. It had been too long since a human had died at his touch.

He failed to hear the two others enter until they were on him. John swore, mostly at himself for getting too caught up in his kill. He had just enough time to stomp down on the man’s neck and heard a satisfying snap. The rest of the room went still except for John, who fought wildly against those who held him.

Sherlock had a needle in John’s arm a moment later. His face was a mixture of sorrow and annoyance. John was most pleased about the annoyance part. “He’s coming for me, isn’t he?” John said as the drugs took hold of him.

“I wish you’d just been calm John.”

 

***

 

Waking up in 221B caused John to start screaming in rage. Chained again, his movements were limited by where it stuck into the wall of his old bedroom. Everything was just as he had left it all those nights ago and reminded John of nightmares. Sherlock, Mycroft and two of his men arrived in an instant, holding John down while Mycroft sedated him. He kept screaming, however weakly, until everything went black.

He realized when he woke up he must have been out for several hours. It had been full dark but now it appeared to be late afternoon. The sun was only coming in through small cracks as it appeared someone had boarded his windows. John refused to scream again though the anger was still as raw and ready to pounce as ever. He reached for his collar and instead of leather, his fingers found skin. John’s eyes darted around, searching for the collar. 

When it refused to materialize anywhere obvious he began to panic. He threw pillows and blankets off the bed, flipped the mattress, dug through every drawer he could get his hands on. Nothing. No collar. Either Sherlock had it or it had been left behind. John didn’t put it past any of them to leave it there on purpose. The bastards.

In the absence of the collar, his hands remained upsettingly empty. He kept flexing and un-flexing his fingers, pacing the length of his room, testing his new chains. There was very little room even to pace and the wallpaper didn’t come away as easily as it had in the hotel. When Sherlock walked in, John didn’t let him start.

“I want out of here. Do you understand? I don’t want to be in this room or this flat or anywhere near here. Move me back. Move me anywhere but here. Now!”

Sherlock tilted his head, storing that information as though it were key to unlocking John. “There’s nowhere else to take you and this is the last place Moriarty will look for you. This will be where you stay until you can see reason.”

“Reason?!” John barked. “You’ve been trying to reason with me? Jesus, you are complete shit at it.” He flexed his fingers again, looking around his flat once more before asking what he really wanted. “You have my collar?”

“No,” Sherlock said simply.

John almost lost it again. He started for Sherlock and then stopped taking a breath to calm himself. “He was coming for me. That’s why you had to get me out. You lied, he did contact you.”

“Yes, I lied. I’d lie about it all over again if I could. I’m not returning you to him, John. I refuse.”

Digging his fingers into his hair, John turned his back on Sherlock. He had to get out of this flat before he went mad.

“You’re already mad,” Sherlock said, always eerily able to read John’s thoughts in his actions. “That’s what I’m trying to fix. You always said you thought more clearly when you were at home.”

“This is not my home, Holmes. This place is just a bad memory of liars and pain. Why do you think I left all that time ago? My new home is with Jim and he’ll find me here eventually.”

“John, you can’t tell me you have no good memories of this room.” Sherlock’s voice had gone softer and he took a step forward into John’s reach. In fact, he got close enough to touch, which shocked John into not lashing out. Sherlock’s hands slid to John’s face and he brought their noses close together. “Our first time was on that bed. I remember you holding my hand while you moved inside me. You were amazing, John. You knew just where to kiss, just where to touch.”

“What are you doing?” John asked through narrowed eyes.

“Reminding you of who you are.” The words were whispered against John lips before Sherlock’s lips found his. John opened his mouth in shock and regretted it when Sherlock’s tongue took the action as invitation.

John’s heel stomped onto the arch of Sherlock’s foot and then his fist collided with Sherlock’s cheek. Before he had the chance to do more damage Mycroft himself was there, a gun pointed at John. “Gonna kill me, Big Brother?” John said with a smirk.

“Not if I don’t have to. But I don’t have to kill you to make you stop.” Mycroft lowered the gun to John’s knee and that was enough to make him back up, hands in the air.

Sherlock coughed a bit as he stood up. His eyes met John’s with a startling pain. John crossed his arms over his chest, chin lifted. “Too little. Too late.”

Had John not known better, he might have sworn there were tears in Sherlock’s eyes.

***

Bad Sherly, don’t you know the rules? No changing places when I call ready or not. –JM

All’s fair in love and war –SH

And which is this to you? –JM

Both, actually. And now you’re one step behind –SH

For now. Do give Johnny Boy my love. Tell him not to worry. I’ve already got a replacement collar. –JM

***

Sometime after midnight on his third day back in 221b, John woke without knowing why. He looked around until he spotted Sherlock sitting with his back to the door looking tired and wrecked.

“I knew you’d be different. When I came back, I mean.” Sherlock’s voice sounded slightly slurred. John wondered if Mycroft knew he’d gotten ahold of the stuff again. “I just never imagined you would be so far gone.”

“Yes, how sad for you.” John rolled onto his side and pulling the blankets over his shoulders.

“I thought you’d be mad, of course. Scream at me, maybe even throw a punch. But to become this… I never imagined this. I should have known he wasn’t dead. I should have known he would come after you. Had I know I would have come for you.”

John refused to reply to this. Sherlock could cry sorry all he wanted, but the time for that was long past. 

“Is there no part of my John left in you? Can you not remember what we had?”

John sighed. Ok, so they were really going to do this it appeared. He sat up again in bed and looked across the room at Sherlock. “I remember. I remember how I’d follow you around, same as I do for Jim. I remember trusting you, convinced that you would tell me things that were the most important, even if it took you a day or so. I remember watching you break my trust over and over again but still forgiving. Do you know what it’s like, watching the one person you care for kill himself?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, I can’t say I do.”

“Of course not. It’s hell. I was empty and heartbroken and then I just got mad. Not at you, but at all the people I believed put you there. You ripped out so much of me when you jumped and you can’t deal with what that did. You want to kiss it and fuck it all better. There is no all better with what you’ve done.”

“I won’t believe that.”

“Jesus, what’s it going to take to get this through to you? You have lost me.” John shook his head, almost pitying Sherlock now. “Give up. It will only hurt you more.”

Sherlock stood suddenly straight and perfectly calm. Not at all high, now that John got a closer look at him. “I’m not giving up. The fact that you told me any of that at all is proof that you still are my John Watson, even if it’s buried deep.” Sherlock’s words were no longer slurred.

“Yes, what a lovely act to get me to repeat that I will not become your sidekick again.”

“Maybe not,” Sherlock agreed with a smile, the same smile he used when John attempted to be clever. “But would I really be the man you loved once if I gave up?”

John blinked and then shook his head and chuckled. “Always got to win the game, don’t you, Sherlock?”

“Always,” Sherlock said, smiling a little bigger. “And you just said my name for the first time. Sweet dreams, John.”

Watching Sherlock go had John rolling his eyes again. He lay flat on his back in the bed. His fingers skimmed over the place his collar should be. The sooner Jim got here the sooner he’d be able to make sense of his existence again.

***

How goes your attempts to tame my dragon, Sir Boastalot? –JM

He’s not your property. –SH

Oh you think because he’s not wearing my collar he’s not mine? How boring. Come now you must know him being off his leash just makes him more dangerous. –JM

I’ve always found John delightfully dangerous. –SH

Not this dangerous. I wonder if you’d slay my dragon if it was necessary. –JM

I’d never hurt him –SH

You mean more than you already have? You did all the hard work for me. I suppose I should send you a gift basket for breaking him with your great big fall. All the king’s horses and all Mycroft’s men will never put Johnny together again. –JM

***

John dreamed of the world before the Fall. He was back in the living room of 221b where Sherlock played violin while John typed up their latest case. It was a warm spring day, the windows were open and between songs they chatted about where to go for dinner that afternoon. Sherlock went to get the kettle off the stove, leaning in to give John a promising kiss. Maybe they wouldn’t get out after all. It was a lovely dream and when he woke, it didn’t feel like a dream at all.

There was a warm weight settled on his chest; black curls of hair brushed John’s chin while long fingers traced numbers and symbols across his stomach and arms. It was just like before, how he’d woken dozens of times in the middle of other nights, when he was still the other John Watson. John felt comfortable and oh so happy resting with Sherlock close to him, so much so that it took time for it to sink in that this wasn’t what they did anymore.

“Sherlock?” John whispered, ready for an explanation as to why Sherlock felt he had the right to be in John’s bed.

No response was given, but those musical fingers didn’t stop their calculations over his skin. John knew Sherlock was working out some chemistry problem or other, using John’s skin as a human blackboard. In the before times it was not uncommon for John to fall asleep to this while Sherlock’s mind would allow him no sleep whatsoever. This had been Sherlock’s way of staying near John when John was sleeping. So what was it now? Was Sherlock making another move on the chess board?

“Sherlock.” This time John’s voice had some sting to it. “What are you doing?”

Finally, Sherlock turned his head and looked at John. There were only a handful of moments when Sherlock was easy to read: when he was very tired, or had just woken up, or sometimes at night when John woke to find him just as he was. They were clear for John in the moment and the sight of those grey-green eyes had John whispering an “Oh” of understanding. Whatever this was, Sherlock lying on him now, it was not a trap.

After waiting a moment for John to go on Sherlock returned to making equations. John sat stiff and motionless for several minutes. Then his fingers came up and began to run through Sherlock’s curls. His thank you for the action was a deep hum of pleasure from Sherlock. John’s gut clenched with a desire that was not at all sexual. This scene was old and well missed. John shut his eyes and tried to remember that Sherlock didn’t care about him.

John never did manage to convince himself that night.

***

Hear that buzzing, Sherly? That’s your time running out. –JM

More riddles, Moriarty? Aren’t those becoming old? –SH

Shall I spell it out for you? Ready or not, here I come. –JM

Mycroft, he knows, not sure his ETA. Get more men here fast.-SH

All-y all-y in come free. -JM

***

John could hear them moving about frantically and it had him more than a little on edge. He stood in his room wondering what had put everyone in this much of a tizzy. Then there were a series of quick, muffled banging sounds. It was a familiar noise, that. John was sure that it was being made by hand guns with silencers. The pieces fell into place for him all at once; Jim had arrived.

Panic and joy warred in his stomach resulting in a horrible cramping sensation. John doubled over, one arm wrapped around his stomach. The muffled shots were getting closer, people were speaking loudly just outside. As suddenly as it began, the sounds stopped. From his position doubled over in pain, he could see blood slipping in through the crack under his door. His knees gave out then and he fell on them with a loud thump.

Footsteps. The door squeaking open. John looked up, half expecting to find Sherlock or Mycroft there. But the man filling the doorframe wasn’t a Holmes brother, nor was it Jim. Instead a big man dressed in an ill-fitting suit now covered in blood stains stood before John. For a moment John thought he was one of Mycroft’s but the suit wasn’t the same shade as the other’s had been and there was no ear piece anywhere in sight. The man took a look around, pointing his gun around the room until he confirmed that John was alone. Then he stepped aside.

“Jim,” the name pulled itself from John’s throat in the form of a gasp. He couldn’t move from his spot on his knees but Jim didn’t seem to mind. 

“There’s my boy. Sherlock’s not as good at hiding you as he thought.” Jim waved his hand at the hired gun who crouched down with a set of keys to unlock John. Jim took a moment to slide a hand around John’s neck. A familiar desire stirred in John and when Jim squeezed; the voice in John’s head screamed “want, want, want.” 

Something of John’s addiction must have shown on his face because Jim chuckled to himself and squeezed John’s throat just enough to show who was in charge. “Come on, Johnny Boy. Let’s get you home. I have nice locks to keep you in.”

John stood frowning ever so slightly. “Did you—Is Sherlock—“ It surprised John to realize he was afraid that the answer to his unspoken question was that Sherlock was dead. 

“Oh I’m sure that particular cockroach is around here somewhere.” Jim waved his hand. “We’ll deal with him later. For now we have another problem.” Then Jim was pressing a handgun into John’s palm and leaning in close. “We still remember rule one, don’t we, Johnny boy?”

Rule number one: no witnesses. John turned his gaze to the burly man who had been standing idle a few feet away from them. No witnesses. The bloodlust roared in his veins and his gun was aimed an instant later. As the gun went off, John heard someone call out his name.

Sherlock was standing in the doorway. Like John, he held a gun. Said gun was aimed at Jim. 

“Well, well, the cowardly lion crawled out of the forest at last.” Jim grinned his hyena grin. “Just in time to see Dorothy put back on the magic shoes.”

“He’s not leaving with you.” Sherlock’s voice was hard, his business voice that left no room for incorrect deductions. “He’s not interested in your brand of magic shoes, Moriarty.”

“Oh, I think he is, though. Not out of his chains five minutes and I’ve already got him killing again.” Jim now turned completely to his nemesis, his other half. “You’ve lost him, Sherlock. He’s mine now.”

Sherlock pulled back the slide, his eyes locked on Moriarty’s. “He’s never been yours. You’re just the drug he does when he’s bored.”

“Well you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

“But he won’t be bored anymore. He’s never bored when he’s with me. He doesn’t need to do another shot of you.”

John frowned at Sherlock’s statement. There was truth in it but the implications weren’t correct. It seemed that Sherlock thought Jim was the only deadly drug in the room. Didn’t Sherlock realize he was the same dosage of a different drug? 

No, of course he wouldn’t. Sherlock didn’t see himself as the drug, he saw himself as the cure. The realization made John’s brows knit together even more.

In front of him, his two addictions of choice bantered wittily about him. No. Wrong. Obvious, they weren’t talking about him, even if he was the topic of conversation. They might have even forgotten that he was in the room with the way they went at it. Just like in the pool when he’d been able to use Jim’s lack of attention to grab hold of him. But that had backfired and the world had narrowed to the two of them as it had now.

How could the world be expected to do anything else? John’s had, the rest of it should as well. This wasn’t the John Watson show, never had been. Even now as he had become the subject of both their attention, it wasn’t about him.

John’s head was suddenly a swarm of locusts, reminding him that he was a piece in a puzzle for them. For both of them. This was a game. He wasn’t the king or any other object worth any value except when the players decided he was valuable. If he went with Jim now, he would remain a piece in the games, something for Jim to dangle over Sherlock. So he should go with Sherlock…

However, going with Sherlock was no better. If he went with Sherlock then Jim would keep playing at getting him back or killing him to hurt Sherlock. More importantly, John would still be an object dangled over the loosing party’s head.

Blood was staining his carpet. John found his reflection in the pool of his victim’s blood. The man had not been innocent. He’d deserved to die and John had found such joy in it. Even now he could feel the steady need to kill rising in him. He could see it reflected in his face. Once, John had been a doctor. He’d healed and helped. He knew what drugs did to a person and had sworn never to take them. But anyone could see those eyes and know them for what they were. John’s eyes were a junkie’s eyes.

“Johnny boy,” Jim sing-songed. “Show little Sherly here just how much you want to come with me.”

“John,” Sherlock’s voice hadn’t lost the edge of ice and stone. “I know you felt it the other night. I know you remember how good we were before. I know you don’t want what he made you.”

For a brief, shining moment, John felt that that world was about him, that he was the lead in his own story. Then he realized neither man had bothered to look at him. John shook his head. “Jim didn’t make me into anything, Sherlock. I already had the potential to be this before he came along.” John aimed his gun at Sherlock’s head.

Now they were paying attention. Sherlock took a step back, whispering John’s name while Jim laughed. “Put the gun down and slide it to me.” John demanded. Sherlock managed to look genuinely upset as he did so. Maybe he was sad to have lost his toy. John reached down to pick up the gun, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s.

“Nice job, Johnny boy! Come now, I have a new collar waiting in—What are you doing?” The laughter died on Jim’s lips as the new gun in John’s hand swung to him.

“This is over,” John’s voice cracked and he couldn’t be bothered to be embarrassed about it. “I’m not in this game anymore. I’m removing myself.”

“If you go with him I’ll kill you, boy,” Jim said casually.

“I’m not going with him.” 

“John, think about this.” Sherlock was equally calm, if less casual. “He’s just going to keep using you to get at me.”

“I’m aware of that, too.” John shook his head. “It doesn’t matter where I go. I’m still going to be used. Jim will use me to get to you or to kill for him or to fuck whenever he wants. I can’t go back to that. But going back to you? Getting used to being ignored when it suites you and constantly needed for every minor thing? Going back to drugged coffee for science and being treated as an slave? How can I go back to that?”

Everything was so clear now. Sadly, rather than being freeing, the clarity made him sick to his stomach. The things he had done, the things he had allowed himself to get used to, they were as far from acceptable and normal as he could get. His eyes welled with hot, angry tears that he refused to allow to fall.

“It’s done,” he said more sure than ever. “I’m walking out of here, out of your lives, out of your games. I’m not coming back. I won’t let myself become just another addict. It ends now. And if either of you try to find me, or if you sic your spies out to find me, I’ll kill you and the ones you sent.”

He half expected them to protest. They looked like they might but then neither did. Of course not. Why would they? They could always find new pieces to play with. 

John left the guns in a trash bin on his way out of London. On his train towards Thurso, John leaned his head against the window and felt the tears finally come. He was alone again, just as he had been all those years ago before Sherlock. He had forced Sherlock to return his wallet and, for good measure, made him grab any cash in the house, too. He would feel bad about that later he was sure. Now he had a few hundred quid to his name and he was alone again. 

Somewhere near Glasgow, a woman sat next to him on the train. He’d stopped crying and had grown numb with the weight of everything he’d done in the name of Jim Moriarty or Sherlock Holmes. He was an empty shell lined with guilt, waiting once again for something to fill him. He did his best to return the lady’s questions but his heart wasn’t in it. She was pretty enough, John was sure she’d be down-right beautiful if his mind allowed him to notice. She may have been flirting even. John had forgotten how normal people flirted and couldn’t be sure that’s what she was doing.

“My name’s Kate,” she said with a smile. “What’s yours?”

His name. Suddenly, the emptiness in him didn’t ache, it glowed. The hollow feeling of not knowing what or who he was felt warm and welcoming to the touch. He was nobody. He was anybody.

“Jack,” he said at last. “I’m Jack Potter.”

The train rattled on as Jack Potter left John Watson behind.


End file.
